Fix Me
by Hersenschim
Summary: Wally's broken. Wally wants to be fixed. But this time, he can't be.
1. Chapter 1: Fix Me

**Chapter 1: Fix Me. **

It was cold. The lights were dizzyingly brilliant, and the walls and floor made an immaculate, suffocating white box around him.

He shivered beneath his blanket.

God, it was cold.

He felt the thin cotton slide against his smooth, freckled skin as he pulled it further up his body.

He breathed a little deeper, and felt his chest heave as it escaped from his lips, jagged and hot.

The air smelt of anesthesia, antiseptics and pine. It stung like water in his lungs.

It was not as though he didn't remember. He did. It had been a deafening, crunching, splintering earthquake in his head, and it had shot up his body like cold fire, ebbing over him like the ocean waves, and reminding him again and again of how human, how mortal he was. That was his sin. Forgetting he was mortal. Though he had always denied it, it had always been true.

Now, he was pulled out from his denial, with all the suddenness of a pin pricking into a large balloon. He felt his chest deflate.

He wasn't confused. He wasn't dizzy. He was perfectly aware of his surroundings, beneath the silent, unmoving, tear-stained visage.

He was exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally. He had spent the night, screaming in his head. Screaming until the tingling had dissipated into numbness.

And then, he was alone, drowning in the void of apathy and detachment. It was as though his body and soul had been wrenched apart, tossed to the farthest corners of the universe, left to wither and rot, separated and useless.

He had reached out, willed himself to the brink. But his body… his body refused to move.

For the first time in his life, no joke came to his lips, to chase away the reality. No comfort could be found in the pile of food that lay stagnating on the table beside. And there was nothing in the words of others to save him from the void. They were all shadows anyway, flickering through the halls of hypocritical, growing monstrosity.

The room became colder and a hunched, cloaked figure floated in, noiseless as the air on a still summer night. He felt the presence, looming, foreboding.

He could see through his eyelids. They were a lurid red-amber. He could tell the light had gotten dimmer. Heavy, laboured breathing caressed his ears. Strangely enough he was soothed by it.

"Wally?"

The voice was characteristically monotone and guttural.

Slowly, the red split into light and colour, and he squinted as his eyes began to focus.

He forced a smile. It was something he had perfected long ago, during the early, unforgotten, angst-ridden days of his adolescence.

Suffering was the strangest thing. He was in pain, but he couldn't feel, and this unfelt pain gave him strength to look up into the stoic eyes he had always avoided, out of dread, out of sheer terror of judgment.

Bruce shifted in the light. The edges of his silhouette were blurred against the whiteness.

He was exhausted, and his smile melted away into the unadulterated face of his accession.

"Don't. Just say it."

Bruce breathed. It was odd. It was almost as if he was afraid. But Bruce was never afraid. At least… never to Wally.

Finally, Bruce's sober lips parted, and the sound was muffled by the vastness of the room.

"We're sorry. We tried the best we could." He exhaled arduously. "You're paralyzed from the waist downwards. There isn't much we can do. I'm sorry, Wally." He nodded, and his shoulders relaxed under his cape, as though the burden had been lifted. "If there's anything you need, don't hesitate to ask." He turned to the exit.

Wally watched him leave, and then, there was no one in the room but himself. He opened his mouth to whisper, but he was voiceless. He closed his eyes, and he was out of tears.

And all he could do was pray.


	2. Chapter 2: Something Left to Hide

Oopsie. Forgot to mention that this is post-'Divided We Fall', so if you haven't watched it, pretend that Chapter 1 is a oneshot. D

**Warning: **this chapter isvery emotional and… yeah. And I know we all hate Clark, but that doesn't mean Clark himself cannot be compassionate… I think….

Also, feedback is welcome.

Oh, and one more thing… I don't write slash. Sorry.

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**Chapter 2: Something Left to Hide. **

_Come a little closer._

_Whisper in my ear._

_Then, as you go, leave me to die._

Wally opened his eyes, blinking bewilderedly as Clark pushed through the doorway, dragging something large, dark and hidden behind him. He sat up, initially mute and unresponsive.

Clark managed a sympathetic, tragic smile, and the background seemed to flicker.

"How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," Wally muttered sardonically.

He stared at Clark, and the acrimony etched gruesome images on the walls of his mind.

Clark, his _saviour_ from _certain doom_. Clark, who will let _no one die_. Clark, the _reason why…. _

Mentally, he scowled, realizing that the only reason that Clark had probably even bothered to stop by was to get the guilt off his chest.

For an instant, they fell into thick, pooling silence, and Wally sat in cold, patient expectation of Clark's platitudes.

"I'm so sorry," Clark whispered finally.

There had been a fleeting dampness in his eyes. Wally grudgingly acknowledged that it wasn't a lie or a front either, though neither of those had ever been characteristic of him.

Wally breathed. It was time for his façade, and somehow, it made him more deserving. In his head, he could hear the countdown music.

"It's okay, Supes… you don't need to apologize."

Clark had always been like Dick, and both had always secretly sought comfort in the idea that there was always a straight answer, that it was either _their fault_ or _not_.

In a sense, it had been Clark's fault. His fault for having the best of intentions. His fault for wanting to _save him_.

It was a morbid thought, a morbid wish, to want to dissolve away into nothing. It had been his clandestine soul-desire, but all the months of wishing fervently in the solitude of his room had brought him to something more terrifying that he'd ever imagined.

_This_ was something altogether.

_This_ wasn't right.

_This_ was _sick_.

He couldn't even begin _to describe_ his mental _nausea_. He didn't know where to start.

And _everything _he had lived for was _gone_, and shunted to the path of all things left to be forgotten. They'd be cloaked in dust, and, on a dark, inevitable winter's day, he'd look back in his senility, trying to remember whether or not it had all been nothing more than a medicated, sepia-coloured dream.

Had he been punished somehow, for wishing so hard? It was a more a selfless wish, really. To be one with the universe and its forces, like that. Perhaps, to be part of something greater.

He supposed that he hadn't been ready yet, but then… who decided that? The Force? Was it conscious? God? _Was there_ a God?

He looked up at Clark's docilely concerned face and swallowed noisily. Clark seated himself on the edge of the mattress, and Wally was suddenly aware of how bitterly the blame had poisoned his thoughts.

No, he wasn't being punished for anything of the like. He was being punished because he had hesitated. The curse of indecision. He, above _all people living_, should have known the difference a split-second makes.

And now, he was neither here nor there. Neither dead nor….

His eyes itched with hot tears, ready to be discharged at a moment's notice. His retinas seared as he looked down the bed. His cheeks burned, and the sheer, unadulterated fury flared up once more. He hadn't looked further than his blanket.

Perhaps, this was all a dream. A vision. Perhaps, he would wake up and find himself surrounded by friends and bliss. Perhaps, his spirit was a somnambulist. Or perhaps, somebody- a really _sick, twisted_ somebody- was fucking _with his mind_.

He restrained a mordant chuckle and, suddenly, thoughts of him and Arkham flooded his bemused, vacillating mind.

He looked to the side, and realized that object that Clark had pulled in so discretely had been a wheelchair.

Disgust, panic and horror suddenly drenched his reeling thoughts as, fiercely, he fought the lull of delirium. His head thudded dully against the tiled wall, and the blood thundered in his ears. His shrouded, tangled form went rigid.

He was wedged between a wall and an abyss of distance and of silence, foreign, unwelcoming. The shadows thrashed over its expanse.

"Wally, are you all right?"

There wasn't an immediate reply. He felt claustrophobia gather up tightly in his chest and waist, like a drawstring bag being toyed with by a little child.

He wanted to curl up and _die_. _Die_, just _then_ and _there_. Or succumb to a drug induced coma. _Anything_ to shatter the pain that came from this nightmarish existence.

And, as suddenly as the panic had come, he was ready… though anger left a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, as it always had done.

He nodded his delayed response and gestured towards the chair. Clark nodded back, his face darkening with compassion and a revolting tinge of pity that only made Wally want to bolt.

Though, unfortunately, he couldn't.

"Here, let me help."

Clark pulled back the cotton sheet and helped Wally into his arms. Wally blushed awkwardly as he was seated into the chair, suddenly feeling all the frailty of a helpless little damsel.

"How does it feel?"

"Weird."

He didn't lie. It felt… very _weird_. He disliked the way the seat cushioned his bum, and how he had to lean back to grip the wheels.

"Do you want me to-"

"No, no. I can handle it," he replied tonelessly.

Wally twisted his fingers around the grooved rubber, and the anger was bland at the tip of his tongue. He squeezed and rolled the wheels forward, spinning around on the momentum of his surreptitious odium.

"I don't know if you saw, but Kara and Don painted your insignia on the back." A smug, sympathetic curve dressed his lips. "We looked for the most comfortable manual. We didn't think you'd like any of the automatics," he added absently.

He regarded Wally inattentively as he made his way around the room, darting from corner to corner in silent observance. Suddenly, he seemed to snap back.

"So, how many people have been to see you?"

Wally exhaled noisily.

"Not many. You. Bruce. Shayera. John and Diana are … somewhere. J'onn's probably too happy that I'm not stealing his Oreos to bother."

Clark's amusement at the last statement was apparent.

"Hm. I'd think people would be queuing to see you." He sighed. "Then again, I guess I understand."

"Understand what?"

"Understand why they wouldn't want to see you.

"And why is that?"

"Hm. Do you want to go out for a bit of air?" The avoidance in his reply left Wally slightly vexed, and he swiveled fluidly on the waxed tile flooring. Clark raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Wally sighed, registering the innocent concern of the words.

"Sure. It would be nice, I guess. And… I guess I feel like some Bats-bugging."

His legs dangled awkwardly, and Clark pursed his lips, indicating the door.

Wally pushed forward, cutting through the stale, scented air. He rolled the wheels, slower, slower, slower until he ground to a painful halt in front of the door, staring blankly at its gleaming, leering button.

He choked. It was a painful, looming sensation, like a heavy, twisted, kerosene-dipped towel being shoved down your throat.

"I…I can't," he stammered. The pain had turned to anger, and the anger had turned to sheer, unconquerable, stabbing terror.

"Wally?"

"I… can't go out there… because-"

There was a fleeting pause, and the silence was punctuated by a sob. Brief, and hard, it reverberated like a dusty guitar chord through the vast, immaculate brilliance.

The façade was broken

He would never be able to word how eerily shameful it was, as he broke into the jolting, uncontrolled, irate tears, his hands clasped firmly over his ears so he wouldn't be able to hear the sound of his own crying. He _hated_ it. He _hated the sound of his voice_, that made him out to be so _pathetic_ and _young_ and _weak_, validating everything he had refused to believe about himself. _Slacker. Child. Clown._ He hunched over and his forehead was even against his knees, and he cried, until the tears suffocated and he began to gasp for breath.

He didn't… want them _to see him like this_. Not like _this_.

And then came Clark's placid voice, brushing against his ears, coaxing and comforting as his arms wrapped around his back.

It was an awkward moment as Wally realized that, for the first time since they had met, they were seeing each other as individuals, as men with minds… and souls.

Here was Clark, _the man_. Not Kal-El, not Superman, but Clark, however trite it seemed. Clark, who _felt his guilt_. Clark, who _felt his pain_. Clark, who _felt his hatred_. Clark….

"It's okay," Clark soothed. "You're fine now. It's okay."

Wally gulped, and the serenity swept over him. He relaxed weakly, still hunched in his chair, the fierce, livid tears still trickling down his hot, paling face and onto Clark's caped shoulder.

_Not that he had ever really enjoyed hugs…._

As he began to pull back, Clark gripped his shoulder and face, firmly, forcing him to look into his unfathomable blue irises. Wally lowered his eyes. He was too tired to protest any further.

"Look at me." Clark's voice was quiet and firm. "It was either you, or the universe, and you chose the universe. God knows if any of us would still be _alive_ you hadn't done what you did. And I can't even begin to describe how much we admire and respect you for your courage." Wally looked up slightly. His eyes were dull and pale. "You are one of the _bravest_ men I have ever known, and trust me, you will look back on today and see this as the beginning of your life. Because that's how you are, and that's how you always have been. You _are_ the Flash, and nothing can stop you from moving on except you." Clark smiled and receded. "Now, come on, there are people waiting for you."

Wally nodded and wiped his face, and Clark couldn't help but smile a little more at his humble, child-like presence. Wally rested in his seat, and the silence was once more thick upon them. Clark strode towards the door, and it buzzed open, large, glowing, inviting. Wally breathed and rolled forward as a warm, comforting hand pressed to the top of his back. He heard Clark swallow.

The door slid shut, and the years, past the walls, were like tides behind him. The loss didn't resound so thunderously; it had already begun to degenerate, like the wheels of his chair, as they had halted at the door.

And, though there were still things yet to be forgiven, suddenly, the future didn't seem all so bleak….


	3. Chapter 3: Fears

Sorry for the delay. (

I was kind of on hiatus for a while, only because I've been really busy with a whole bunch of stuff. Plus relatives were over, and I'm getting my wisdom teeth removed.

Anyway, hopefully you're not too mad. Please notify me if you think I need to bump up the rating. I think it is okay right now, but, then again, I don't have very good judgment with these things.

Enjoy!

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**Chapter 3: Fears**

There was a soft flap of wings and a dull tap of stockinged feet onto the tiled floor behind her. Diana looked out over the expanse of white, wintry frost, and the sun shone in its deceptive candor.

Shayera swept to her side, following Diana's line of sight.

The Watchtower had long since been dismantled, though a small, make-do satellite filled its place in the empty sky. Down on the surface, the streets of Metropolis were soft and silvery, dressed in the emerald of evergreens and glittering with Christmas lights.

"You're thinking about Wally?" Shayera tilted her head. Diana fluttered her lashes in irritation.

"_Yes_, I'm thinking about Wally. Who _isn't_?"

"Hm." Shayera chewed her lip, and her wings tucked themselves neatly behind her small back. Diana parted her lips to speak, paused and exhaled. Shayera canted her head. "What?"

"You… remember the Justice Lords?" Diana's tone was unreadable.

"Yes I do."

A taut silence hung between the two women, and they stared out, past the gates, onto the street where a hunched, liver-spotted old man had slipped on the ice. Diana raised her head, and her tone fell.

"Do you ever wonder if… maybe that will end up being our future?"

"Wally isn't dead yet." Shayera's reply had been almost immediate, and Diana's throat tightened.

"He isn't dead. But he isn't _the same_… _none _of _us_ are _the same_."

She turned, and her back felt the chill vibrating off the glass.

"He's still Wally," Shayera stated quietly.

Diana made no reply. Her raven locks waved behind her; she floated down the corridor, and didn't look back.

**222222222222222222222222**

His pale green eyes darted across the lowered window, and a snowflake floated in, landing perfectly on the tip of his tongue. It melted. He loved the snow.

He was in a happier place than he had been before, though by no means had he totally recovered from the shock of the situation. He had accepted the fall, so it was not as surreal to him as it initially had been. But the fear had evaporated like ether… at least for the moment. Perhaps, it had been shoved temporarily to the side, like a book that was getting to depressing to read all in one go. But that's how he was. He would take a little bit at a time, until he had digested it all, and he would be complacent in its heavy, omnipresent manifestation.

Though it was not as if the anger was not there. It was merely hidden, stuffed further down, somewhere, until it bubbled out at some other time, when it was too hot to keep inside. Or maybe it would just melt away, as most things did, with time. He wasn't certain, because all that was guaranteed to him was the present.

For now, he wore his sweet, serene mask, the one he wore everyday, outside his bedroom, grinning until the muscles in his cheeks hurt. But, then, that was _him,_ wasn't it?

Maybe there had been an inkling of truth, though less so than sympathy, to what Ollie had told him, before he had left with his mountain of gifts and cards. That the others in the League relied on him for support and hope. That it was because he pulled himself up, with a smile, every time he was knocked down, regardless of how moronic or insignificant he felt, that the others had the strength and motivation to get up themselves. He had been a symbol, in a bizarre, childish way. Even Clark had said so, though things had been a little awkward between them after the whole 'touchy-feely-hug' session. So he supposed they owed it to him, and that he was probably more deserving of the two-hundred dollar mp3 player and the seven-hundred dollar bottle of chardonnay than he had initially thought. And, yeah… he _had saved _the _universe_… _again_… right?

He wore the mask for them. Maybe a little for himself. And, maybe, for the eyes that drew him in and begged for him to live the way he always had.

He looked across the space. Bruce flipped the crinkling page of newspaper, scanning the text indifferently with his dark, ferocious eyes.

The idea of being taken in by the Bat-family, even temporarily, was slightly creepy.

No, actually, it was _very_ creepy.

He had been to Wayne Manor tons of times before, but this was something else altogether.

But the fact that Bruce had even _volunteered_ to take him in had startled him slightly, though it struck him that he might of felt obliged to do something about his son's best childhood friend. Or maybe he actually cared. He had seen a surprising amount of emotion upon the relaying of his temporary resignation, and he had to bite his lip in order to keep himself from tearing up again. Not that he was touched that they had been crying for him, or anything; it was more the guilt of cursing them secretly for thinking they saw him as an immature little prick… or something like that.

He supposed the Bat-family weren't all_ that _bad, once you got used to the broodiness… and the slightly unnerving obsessive insanity. Though he supposed insanity had always been relative. After all, less than two days ago, he had, himself, been prancing around in red spandex…right?

"Bruce?"

"Yes, Wally?"

Wally looked beyond him, to a barren, passing tree, elegant and silvery in the waning light.

"Thanks."

The limousine turned the intersection, and Bruce looked up at him, sober, smart and grim.

"You don't need to thank me. You've done enough for the League to deserve our concern." Wally grinned, and Bruce couldn't help but manage a half-smile back. "To be honest with you, the rest of us got into quite the argument over who would host you. I think Clark was looking forward to you staying with his folks in Smallville, but I thought that you might feel more at home at Wayne Manor, considering you slept over so much when you were younger."

"I'm touched," he grinned, suddenly alarmingly aware that he had always been one of '_Bruce's little boys_'.

He lowered the window further, and two more snowflakes floated in. He smiled childishly, forgetting his previous thoughts, and leaned forward, waiting for them to land on his nose. His eyes were lucid, and, for a moment, Bruce was drawn in by their astonishing depth.

When Wally smiled, he smiled with his eyes.

The limousine turned into the driveway and the engine groaned to sleep. Bruce tilted his head as the door slid open and the old man peered through its entrance.

"We're home, Master Bruce, Master Wallace."

Wally stifled a giggle, and he was met with Alfred's nonchalant stare.

"Ah… I'm sorry, Alfred. It's just funny when you call me that."

The corners of Alfred's withered lips seemed to twitch, and leaned back, giving Bruce space to step out. The doors of gargantuan mansion creaked apart, and a swarthy, familiar face poked out.

Bruce lay a hand on the roof of the car and looked in.

"I had to practically drag them back here for you. I know you like Alfred, but I wasn't sure how much you'd appreciate his company day-in and day-out."

Wally arched an eyebrow as Dick came skidding by on the ice, adequately dressed in a pair of grey jeans a loose, black tee-shirt. He grabbed the car for support, his face beaming. Tim sauntered drowsily behind, shivering in the wake of a frosty new breeze.

"Hey, bud!" His untied hair fell around his face as he reached in for Wally's hand. Wally grinned, slapping it as hard and quick as he possibly could, hoping that it wouldn't break his wrist. "Ow!"

Tim smirked.

"He's still quick, huh?"

Bruce Bat-glared and Tim fell silent, then backed up at the sudden thrust of a folded wheelchair into his face. He slipped into the snow.

"Ssssssss……owwwwwww," he hissed, rubbing his back tenderly.

Bruce grimaced and folded the chair out as Dick helped Wally onto the seat, grinning sympathetically.

"Wow, I feel… like a _princess_."

To this, Dick snorted.

"Come on in, Princess Wally."

"Actually, I prefer Princess _Wallacynthia_, but I guess _Wally will do_."

He pouted as they rolled up the ramp. Alfred stepped forward, pushing apart the doors with his quivering, aged arms. They rolled through, into the vestibule.

Wally's eyes darted in careless scrutiny.

"Wow, this place has changed.

"We installed an elevator for you, to make it easier for you to get around."

Wally looked up at the bulky, mechanical monstrosity locked self-righteously by the stairs.

"Geez, guys. I don't know what to say. Seriously." His face had painted itself a flushed pink, beneath the light pattern of his freckles. "I mean… you guys didn't need to spend on me or anything."

"Yeah, well, we don't want to keep carrying you up and down all day."

Alfred collected Wally's coat and scarf and, muttering something about the carpet, strolled into the adjacent room. Tim shivered and gulped noisily.

"I'm going to my room," he muttered darkly.

Wally blinked as he watched the adolescent disappear down the labyrinth of doors.

"Wow, he's very… Bats-like."

Bruce and Dick simultaneously raised eyebrows, and Dick wheeled him further in. Wally pouted, musingly observant. Bruce shrugged behind them, still in the doorway.

"Hm. I'm sorry, I won't be joining you for dinner. I have to conference to attend. But make yourself at home. I'm sure that won't be too hard."

Wally tilted back his head.

"Have fun!"

Bruce managed a small, abstemious smile and followed Alfred, still clad in his chauffer attire, out the doors, closing them quietly behind him.

Dick wheeled him into the kitchen.

"Alright! At least I remember where _this_ is."

"We stocked up the fridge. Really. Like, grocery-store type stock-up."

"Sweet." He paused, suddenly pale.

"What?"

"Nothing…I…nothing." He licked and pursed his lips. "I… don't know if any of this is really necessary."

"Sure it is." Dick squeezed Wally's tight shoulder. "Dude, we want you to feel comfortable."

"I know."

"Then? Is there something else you want?"

"No… I _don't want anything_."

Dick pulled up a chair and sat before him, his eyes boring uncomfortably into Wally's smooth forehead.

"We want you to heal. To be alright with this. That's why I'm here."

Wally looked slightly away, his fingers tightening around the rubber and steely rims.

"I'm alright. I… got over it."

Dick raised a disbelieving eyebrow, though, otherwise, his face was eerily vacant.

"That was quick."

"Yeah," Wally mumbled weakly. He scratched the back his hand against the stubble above his nape. Dick's face contorted slightly, and he let out his reply in a painfully long exhalation.

There was a full thud of wood behind them, and it echoed until they turned back to look. Tim hopped up and down behind the counter, nursing his foot in a peculiarly flexible way that seemed to remind Wally of a miniature, brunette Ralph.

"_Fuck_!" He looked up. "I mean… _poop_!"

Wally eyed him suspiciously.

"Is he always like that?"

"Alfred and I are trying to teach him not to swear so much."

Wally snorted.

"Whatever. Fucking hypocrite."

"Geez, Wall!"

"_Fine, fine_- Timmy?" He arched his neck back. "Don't say bad words, or think bad thoughts, or do drugs, or drink, _because you're underage_, or have sex, _especially_ not with Bart, _'cuz then I'll rip your balls of… _or look at porn and/or jerkoff in the bathroom, or any such place, because God will _hate_ you and then you _will die_!" He looked away from Tim, who now appeared slightly distraught. "How was that?"

Dick shook his head, chuckling, watching Tim stare and slink back to whence he came.

"My God, it's great to see you again."

"Ditto, I guess. How's stuff at Blüdhaven …and elsewhere?"

"Good, I suppose. At least at Blüdhaven. I check on the Titans every so often. You know Cadmus actually had the gall to offer Konnie(1) a job as a field agent?"

"He said '_no_', right?"

"What else would he say? He's pissed off enough about the whole 'being a Cadmus-baby' thing as it is. We're still counseling him about it. I mean, he tried to _kill himself_, y'know?"

"Ech. Not cool. How's Bart(2) doing?"

"Okay. He's dealing with his disability pretty well. Spends a lot of time at the library, funnily enough. I think you got over yours faster, though."

"The learning disability or the ADD?"

"Mmm… both."

Wally paused.

"Does he know?"

"Tim may have told him. Not sure."

"I _don't_ want him to _know_."

"You'll have to tell him eventually."

"I just… not yet."

"It can't hurt him any more than it hurts you," Dick stated quietly. Wally fell into muteness, and traumatism surfaced fleetingly in his limpid green eyes. "You're sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Sure?"

"Yeah." There was no hesitation as the word escaped his parted lips. Dick looked down at the floor.

"You're crazy," he said quietly, scratching the back of his neck and scanning the ground for imaginary crumbs. Wally blinked and fidgeted. "Back… then. Every time you fell down, somehow you'd manage to pick yourself up. I didn't know how to did that. A lot of people don't." He paused. "I… used to think that nothing could get you down. That you were invincible. Of course, Barry was something else, but still." He pursed his lips and his eyes were unreadable. Wally joined him in staring at the floor.

Tim's swearword echoed across the hall.

"Are you done?"

"Yeah, I'm done."

Wally continued to stare, now at his feet, which were dangling awkwardly beneath the seat.

"Have I let you down?"

Dick's face broke into a warm, brotherly smile, something so uncharacteristic that Wally almost backed away.

"Naw. You're freaking Superman to me now. I mean, look at you- you're still so… so '_Wally_', y'know? It's amazing." He looked out, through the large French windows and into the sugared garden. "Though I don't you could, even if you tried."

Wally shot him a wry grin and swiveled towards the fridge.

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"Mmm. That was good. My stomach hurts."

Wally wheeled forward across the salted sidewalk, his scarf bound tightly around his nape. Tim smirked, shoving his gloved hands into the depths of his fashionably tattered jean pockets.

"I told you that chili pepper looked dangerous."

"I _know_! That's why I ate it!" He swiveled. "Man, I love Indian food."

Dick's face twitched mildly.

"Spice gives me ulcers. That's why I stick to the rice."

"See, it's the onions that kill _me_." Tim sniffed and tilted his head back, cocking his ears as a surly old man brushed his shoulders. Dick pursed his lips and observed.

"Tim?"

"_Look. Up_."

Dick tipped back his head, and Wally squinted into the polluted glow of the skyline.

"_Shit._" Tim remained still, tight-lipped and rigid. Wally's breath misted and swirled into the fug as it escaped his lips. Up on a building, a twisted silhouetted figure raised his arm, a long, cylindrical object quivering in his clenched, waved hand.

"What'd you guys think- prison break?" Wally looked up and his eyes were light and amused against his hued skin. "Breach at Arkham, maybe?"

"We don't have _time_ to _think_."

There was a rising, shrill cry of hysterical laughter, and the cylindrical object, black against the lurid sky, exploded into the ether. The crowd began to confuse, ebbing with terror and panic. A sable mist began to rise from the pavement.

"Oh, God. I know what this…this-uhuh..huhuhahaha_hha-hahahahahh-H**AH-AHAHAh-AHhaHAaaa**-_" Wally thrust his face into his hands and began to choke on his short, repressed bursts of frenzied laughter. Tim sniffed and began to tear as he stifled a giggle. Dick clenched his jaw.

"Here!" He pressed a mask to Tim's reddening face, then one to his own. "Wally, I don't have one for you. Find somewhere safe _around this area _and stay_ here._"

"Pmghch-" he snorted. "Oh-Okay-y." His voice cracked and he held his gut as he broke out into full-blown laughter, pressing his forehead evenly against his knees. Dick winced, slightly startled.

"I mean it. Don't go _anywhere_."

"Oh-ok-kay- I-I won't." He wheezed and rubbed his tear-stained face.

Dick grabbed Tim by the wrist and they fled into the alarmed, swarming throng. Wally pulled his scarf over his sharp, angular nose and his eyes danced across the scene for a spot of safety, trying to breathe between the fits of laughter that seized him as he wheeled forward. People in the crowd were beginning to fall the ground, clutching their abdomens and writhing in the snow, gasping for breath amidst their hysteria.

He giggled and slitted his eyes, darting in behind the restaurant and wheeling down the alley, away from the spreading fingers of the gas. Veering around the corner he pushed out onto the new street. Road salt stung his fingers and crumbled off the wheels.

He knew his way around Gotham well enough. He didn't want to be caught in the panic. Not with wheels.

And Dick, too often, lost sleep unnecessarily.

'_Stay right here'_. Shyeah, right.

He wheeled down the empty street, and the envious futility began to cloud his mind.

_Dammit. If only he could **help**._

It was only a matter of time before his body registered the failure. His metabolism would slow. His body would change. The Speedforce would desert him.

But his fingers still gripped and pushed the tires with his usual quickness. It had to count for _something_.

"Hey!"

He canted his head, and the skyscraper tops of the chaotic downtown were dissolved in the low contrast of the glowing smog. He looked forward, squinting up at the sign over the mutilated building.

_Pharmacy._

_Okayyy._ Looting a pharmacy? Man, that was just sad. Though he supposed that there was time when medication was cheaper.

Two cloaked men in straw hats materialized from the shadows, an uzi poking out neatly from each of the long, tattered sleeves.

Wally paled, thought it was indistinguishable in the intensity of the fluctuating streetlights.

"Hey, I'm gonna call the cops… or Batman!" He winced, ashamed by his '_cop_' threat, and slightly more disgusted at himself for resorting to threatening them with '_Batman_'. "Yeah that's _right_, bitches!"

The cloaked henchmen hunched forward, when a gnarled, gaunt figure emerged between them on the dais, chuckling menacingly beneath the straw that dressed his face.

Wally blanched.

_Oh. Shit._

"Come a little closer. I won't hurt you." Wally leaned back in his chair, started to roll back and away. Scarecrow flipped down from the platform. "Going to call Batman, are we?" He drew up to full height, his skeletal figure trembling with hungry glee. "I don't think you would do that."

"Are you so sure?" Wally clenched his jaw. Scarecrow chuckled in wicked amusement.

"Do you have a phone?"

Wally's groped his jacket pocket for his cell, intimidated and confused. Scarecrow suddenly darted forward, grabbing him by the hair and forcing his head back. Wally spluttered, his pupils growing small and afraid. Scarecrow exhaled and the acidic mist curled around his pale face as a gloved hand ran across his nape. He threw back his head and laughed, pushing his palm in against Wally's throat. Wally gasped and fell from his chair, his knees dragging against the ground and dampening in the snow as Scarecrow hauled him forward and up the stairs, through the shattered double-doors of the entrance.

His weak body slid against the floor, across the shattered glass and into the pile of drug bottles. He wheezed and attempted to crawl out, convulsing feebly at Scarecrow's narrow feet.

Cutting, tapered fingers grabbed at his vocal chords. He choked and was raised off the floor, his face at level with the contorted mask.

"Think Batman's going to hear you scream?" Scarecrow breathed through his teeth.

"_Yeah_, and he's …going to shove a batarang… up your scrawny… straw-covered…ass." They were forced whispers through his tightening throat. Scarecrow hissed and raised his fist. Wally shut his eyes tightly, bracing as the gas hit him in the face with full force. He yelped and went limp as Scarecrow let him drop, kneeling beside his still body, and running a hand through his damp, auburn hair.

"My, my, my dear little cripple. What a pretty face you have." He pulled Wally even closer and leaned in, his mask almost brushing the man's terrified, young face. "And your eyes, they are simply stunning, so pale and clear… and easy to read." He ran a gloved finger down Wally's freckled nose, then up his cheekbone and behind his ear, chuckling delightedly at the sudden dilation of Wally's pupils. "I wonder what you're seeing?" His fingers began to probe the man's acquiescent body. Wally whimpered and shuddered violently, and Scarecrow burst into an abrupt laughter. "I bet he thinks there are tarantulas crawling over him. He looks that type. Afraid of insects. They all are. _Stupid. Animals_." He receded and looked back to the shrouded henchmen, who shifted uncomfortably in their corners. "Kill him." He stood up and paused. "Then again, I don't suppose any of you have had a good fuck since you've gotten out. Do what you like. But make sure he's dead by the time I get back."

Wally shivered on the floor, his eyes wide and unresponsive, his mind chanting _wrongness_. A guard brushed past and kneeled by the twitching body. A long, polished handle slipped out from beneath his cloak, his fingers twisted in their grip. He pulled up Wally's pale chin and pressed the barrel to his temple. His teeth were white and gleaming behind his hood.

Wally jerked, and the guard's finger began to tighten on the trigger.

Almost immediately, the guard began to scream. The gun clanged to the floor and Wally began to crawl across the tiled, bottle-littered expanse, shuddering and gasping. The remaining guards leapt forward, spraying the horizon with a storm of bullets. One dashed to the side, sprinting for the exit.

Wally sobbed in giddy disorientation, his body feverish and aching. He pulled himself forward and reached out to the closed back door, pressing his palm into its smooth, metallic surface.

_Demons, demons, demons chasing him. He wanted to stay alive. He **needed** to stay alive. _

His fingers curled into the metal and the steel started to dissipate as the tips of his fingers sent ripples through the melting sheet. It ripped into a large hole, and Wally could see the snow-caked pavement.

He dragged himself through and tumbled into the snow. A hooded, scarfed man by a lamppost gasped and turned as a shivering Wally pulled himself away from him, whispering senselessly.

"Sir, are you okay? Do you-"

The man choked in mid-question, falling limply to the side as the blood sprayed, dark and thick, onto the snow. The guard shot into the air grabbed Wally by the shoulders and threw him to his back. Wally spluttered and the barrel was forced between his lips.

_Click._

Wally's vision began to falter, when suddenly the gun dropped, and the guard reeled back, screaming almost as senselessly as Wally had in his own mind when had felt the fingers touching his skin. He saw the heat rising and distorting, and felt the snow melt beneath him. The guard continued to scream, running dizzily down the alley in his panic.

Wally panted, and his breath was misty as it hit the cold air.

A dizzy, distant voice called out.

"_Wally? Is that you? Wall?"_

It manifested, hovering over him, dark and shifting, with venom seeping from its eyes. It opened its mouth and there was nothing but vacancy. He screamed, and his voice cracked against the sky. It was snowing, and the cold burned his damp, blood-sprayed face.

The world was swirling colour, light and sound, and, almost suddenly, it had gone the most delicious shade of black Wally had ever seen.

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For those of you who are not familiar with the comics, it's time for blurbage.

**Konnie, a.k.a Kon-El:** Basically a partial clone of Clark and Lex (by Cadmus- who else would do something stupid like that?). He was artificially aged, and had a whole bunch of information inputted into his brain. He escaped Cadmus and was found by Clark, who took him to the Fortress of Solitude and christened him Kon-El. He is somewhat telekinetic and can mimic all of Superman's abilities, including x-ray and heat vision, and is currently a part of the New Titans under the name of Superboy.

**Bart Allen:** Barry Allen's grandson and Wally's cousin (somehow?) from the future. He was also artificially aged, but never gained the maturity to cope with the real-world. He, like his grandfather and cousin, possesses super-speed, and can think and react as fast as he runs. Initially , he called himself Impulse, but he has now donned Wally's old suit and has taken the title of Kid Flash II, though he and Wally basically hate each other.

Well, I hope the chapter had been worth the wait. I promise to update sooner. Till next time…


	4. Chapter 4: The Taste of Red Ink

Mwahahaha. You think last chapter was messed? Let's just see now….

And, yes; Wally's suffering makes me happy. In fact, I'm pretty sure it makes us all happy.

Anyway, his suffering is rather short in the chapter, considering how short the chapter is itself. Hopefully it is good though.

Ah, the fruits of a disturbed mind….

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**Chapter 4: The Taste of Red Ink**

The world was black. Just… black. Blacker than night, or Bruce's cape against it.

He was still and crouched, dizzy and unsure, and there were figures dancing around him, like bizarre, glowing fairies in a hallucinogenic dream.

He rose and peered into the darkness.

_She was there. Again. _

She swirled towards him, through the dancing shadows. He caught his breath as light flickered momentarily, but the darkness returned as she pressed into him, her smooth skin so cold against his.

His eyes were wide with terror, and he was tall and motionless. She pulled his head in, drawing his eyes up to hers. She leaned in and he could feel the ice on her breath.

_You have so much potential… _

The words had no voice, and Barry's lined face flashed in the background, a disturbed grimace splashed across.

She reached down, and he could feel her icy fingertips, massaging, tingly and cool.

'_**Wrong. Wrong. Wrong'.** _His mind chanted, hysterical and silent. _All **wrong.**_

…_yet you're such a fool. A small-minded, pathetic, worthless fool. _

The pain shot through his lungs, and he choked to his knees . She grabbed his chin, and the ambience swirled around her. She pressed her frosty mouth to his, and he felt her teeth sink deeply into his tongue.

Unwillingly submissive, he tasted the iron, and began to drown in _her_….

_You have always been mine._

**2222222222222222222**

His eyes snapped open, and the panic resumed as the water thundered in his ears, the salt pouring into his lungs and stinging his widening eyes. He spluttered hysterically and pushed for the surface, thrusting his head up as the bubbles escaped his lips. He gasped as he broke out into the air, the rain beating acerbically against the back of his head. He waved his arms beneath the water and scanned for the shore, blurred behind a screen of thickly painted fog.

A lighthouse smiled its beam in the hazy distance. His forearm came into contact with something lifeless and cold. The water swirled and dulled as he bobbed towards it.

The water was crimson against his skin, and his pupils grew small and sharp in observance of the floating thing.

A body.

Alarm surfaced in his pale, green irises and he pushed the water back to get near it. Shimmering, green satin clung to its hued body, darkening its curly blond hair with streaks of red.

_Ollie._

His legs were heavy and numb and he struggled to keep to the surface, prayer streaming from his fervent, quiet lips as he dragged a leaden arm over Ollie's buoyant body. The body sagged slightly, and Wally pushed his arm behind Ollie's head in a desperate attempt to keep him breathing.

_My, God. Don't die. Don't die._

He closed his eyes and the waves rushed against them.

_Gotta think. Gotta think._

His fingers wiggled rapidly beneath the saline, grey surface.

_You've still got your arms. And **it**'s still there. _

The water streamed down his face as he flipped to his back. Wrapping an arm around Ollie, under his back and grabbing on to the sticky green satin, he raised the other into motion. His rapid arm-circles caused the water to stream out in jets behind them and they propelled forward. He closed his eyes, tightly, and the water filled his ears so he could not hear the drilling noise his arm made as it hit the water.

He felt his back drag against the clay.

They had hit the shore, and the water had become shallow and frothy. His arm splashed against the surface and was still as he turned back onto his stomach, reaching out into the wet sand to pull himself forward, Ollie's limp body dragging beside him. Behind him, his legs were a wet, confused heap, and they contorted lifelessly as he slid out of the water. The gravel was abrasive against his elbows, and his forehead was even against the tiny pebbles as he spat out the sand.

He pulled Ollie up next to him, cradling his limp head.

"Oll, wake up-" his voice was soft and pleading. He ran desperate, sandy fingers through the damp, blond hair. "Ollie, _please_, just wake _the fuck_ up." The eyes were pale and clear as they stared up into the rain, and Wally could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest. Wally bit his lip and stared down across Ollie's motionless body, his eyes widening as they came to halt at his abdomen. Melted skin and flesh had formed a pustuled, lumpy smear across his abs, where the green cloth had torn away. Wally's fingers convulsed and he ran a trembling hand over the mutated skin. A part of the flesh had torn away, and he could feel the soft, warm mushiness of Ollie's intestines. He winced, and the blood drained from his face.

His fingers immediately darted across the sand-plastered body for Ollie's commlink.

_Please, God- tell me it's there-_

He sighed despairingly.

His arm draped across Ollie's shoulder and he dragged him further up the beach, finally resting his face in the sand beside Ollie's ear. His richly-coloured, auburn hair was plastered low on his forehead, and it paled his skin in the contrast as he lay still beside the figure, listening to the breaths die away.

For a long time, the two were motionless on the beach as the waves licked the shore. Then, as sunlight began to poke out through one of the dissolving clouds, Wally raised his head, cocking his ears slightly. He lifted his arm, and his clothes hung off him wetly as the shivers ran through his muscles. Ollie was quiet, and Wally's white hand slowly brushed his transparent lids shut.

Wally's shoulders sagged into the sand, letting out only a small, lonely, choked sob before he, too, went completely still.

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"_Oh, my God! **Ollie!**"_ you must be thinking. _"Is he **dead!**"_

Yes, my friends, yes… Ollie is dead.

"_But…this is….random!" _you reply.

Well, all will be explained in due time. I mean, of course it will, right?

XD

Oh, and, when something this messed up happens, as always, our friend Victor Sage is sure to make an entrance… but this is all 'next-chapter' stuff, so ignore ….


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